On The Red Street Of Dover
by Lynn Kroto
Summary: Can you fall madly in love with someone who, under all other circumstances, annoys you to no end? Arthur and Francis come to terms with each other in a very unlikely place, in a rather blunt manner that leaves Francis worried, and Arthur floundering.
1. Chapter 1

Weather was like a religion in Seattle. It was, for the most part, completely routine, and in a nice order by season.

Spring: Rain all the time.

Summer: Rain, with a few sunny days.

Fall: The sky is leaking every other minute.

Winter: Pouring and cold every single day.

Convenient, because one always knew what to wear, and they never forgot an umbrella, but some people hated the rain. Arthur Kirkland was one such man, who found this seasonal down pour too close to the weather of that of his homeland, England, to be completely comfortable. He was not a man that felt comfortable many places to begin with, especially around people. Arthur was not a people person, and did not look the part, which further established this. His sharp green eyes, large eyebrows, hunched and small frame, and his instinctual reaction to scowl when anyone went near seemed to drive most others away, and he was frankly glad for this most of the time. Although he was not uncaring, people and conversations were just not his forte and found everything was better if they were avoided.

Most of the time, this was a simple mundane lifestyle to pull off. There were the few instances when he did have to work with other people though, and those were not enjoyable times for Arthur. Going to the store was hard enough on a crowded day, yet somehow he managed to drag himself through society without being trampled. There were a few people he did feel comfortable around, of course. Peter, his "son", if that was the word, and his parents lived in a small seaside town two hours away, and it was easy enough to go and see them if Arthur so desired. Friends, though there were a very small few, were dear to him and it was always nice to see them. So there were times and places for things; some more likable than others.

World Meetings were perfectly fine in Arthur's book, to an extent. It was a good opportunity to meet with those he worked with, it kept them all informed, and cleared up confusion. It was simply a good way to keep organized, and although it took up a good majority of his Friday, it was certainly a productive way to spend his time. Some times they played at his already frayed nerves for various reasons, sometimes things turned to yelling, other days there was not much to be said, but the irregularity of the schedule hardly bothered Arthur. As long as something was going on, everything was fine. The extent of this enjoyment of said meetings stopped at two certain people whom Arthur could not stand, above all others.

The first was Alfred Jones, more specifically the way he talked, and in the large quantity he talked, whatever he had to say was the most annoying noise Arthur had ever heard. It was like the droning noise of a washer at two in the morning whose cycle seemed like it could go on and on forever and never be done. They were in this middle of this right now. There was Alfred, standing at the head of the table, talking and gesticulating wildly like his life depended on it. Arthur had no idea what was coming out of his mouth, just that it was yet another ridiculous plan of his, that would undoubtedly put himself center stage, yet again.

Arthur tapped his pen against the table, rolling one ankle under the table impatiently. It would be ages before the thought of shutting up even crossed Alfred's mind, and until then everyone was stuck listening to his nothings. It was in this time that he was pleased to note that the other person whom made these meetings almost unbearable was absent from his usual spot aside the Englishman. They key phrase was pleased; not entirely happy, just glad that at that precise moment, there was no stupid Frenchman to whisper comments that were hardly appropriate for the time or place.

To Arthur, Francis Bonnefoy was an interesting person, in the sense Arthur had no idea what to do with him. He had a pretty logical idea of the things he _wouldn't_ do with the man, but sometimes even that got foggy. For the most part, he was a prick. Almost as intolerable as Alfred, only ten times more perverted and loud. Anything he did or said, at the moment it was done or spoken, was like grinding nails down a chalk-board and it caused Arthur a fierce migraine on more than one occasion. However, it was the aftershock that struck him most. It was when Francis wasn't around that Arthur found himself wishing he had that prattling voice to listen to, that pretty face to look at.

So along with blatantly ignoring whatever Alfred had to say, he found his eyes, more often than not, drifting over to the empty space next to him, wishing it was full of a warm, lovely-smelling Francis. He found himself lazing off unintentionally, and Alfred's voice simply became white noise for he didn't know how long. But that brief time was spent on pondering the situation of Francis, more importantly, how nice it would be to take him home and–

"Arthur!" The barked name, his name, jolted him right up, and he noticed that everyone was watching him. God dammit. Yet another demonstration of why Francis was confusing. He wanted to ignore him so badly when he was around, but sometimes the very idea of the man made Arthur drool. "It's your turn," a tall blonde man said, kind enough, but a little irritated.

"Yes, of course, of course." Finally, a worthy distraction, and possibly the only one that could drag his mind away from that frog. Work was extremely important to him, so when he stood before the board, he made sure to sweep everything from his mind that was not directly related to his notes. And for a good ten minutes, that worked. Arthur went right along with his speech he had planned, and his voice was clear. He was sure everyone looked impressed, and he was feeling fantastic. Until the boardroom door opened, and in strolled Francis Bonnefoy, all dolled up in one of his expensive suits and gracefully tardy. As soon as Arthur saw that stupid French face, his mental table again became crowded with annoyance.

"Sorry I'm late..." the Frenchman apologized, giving a small elegant bow to the entirety of the room. Upon hearing that voice of his, Arthur's face turned red. Of course, the frog had to come in at the time most inopportune for Arthur. He couldn't have gotten there five minutes earlier?

"Just sit down, Git," he growled through gritted teeth. Francis winked at him and moved around the table to the empty chair near Arthur's. When he resumed his speech though, he found it a little harder to get words from his mouth. Sometimes they got stuck, and he had to cough as to dislodge them, others they came out too fast and he tripped on his vocal cords. This strange phenomenon always happened, whenever Francis was around. Francis, looking so casual, leaning back in his seat, drawing on paper with a pen. Every time Arthur's eyes even went near the man, his heart took a pause, which messed up the rest of his body systematically and he had to take the next second to reset himself. Francis had no idea.

This awkward, jumpy cycle continued until what was on the paper had reached the ears of those in the room. He folded his notes back up and tucked them into the pocket of his trousers, walking back around the oblong table as a tall chestnut haired man with sparkling green eyes made his way up to the front. As he approached his seat, his legs pumped a little faster, and the tapping of his shoes alerted the man aside the empty chair. Francis looked up and gave him a warm smile.

"Bonjour, Arthur. Lovely speech, as always." The Englishman blushed and grumbled his way through the flattery, reaching his seat and sitting quickly.

"Where were you?" he hissed, scooting his chair back in. The back legs scraped loudly against the floor.

"Out, 'aving sex with a woman on ze beach," Francis joked, looking up at Arthur from around blonde bangs. He winked. The Englishman felt his face grow increasingly red, and he scowled before turning his head away quickly.

"Bloody Frog..."

–

_ One day, wouldn't it be nice to hold him?_

_ Oh god yes. To hold him and never let go. We could spend all day tangled in bed, naked, and sleep and joke away the day until it got dark out again. I could kiss him all I wanted, everywhere, and I wouldn't have to stop if I didn't want to. We could go at it all night, and even in the morning. We could both skip work once a month to spend the day in town; go shopping even though I hate it, go out for dinner to a fancy place, come home to our flat (Mm, "our" hasn't sounded better in a sentence) and keep each other up all night._

_ He could be all mine. I wouldn't have to watch him wink at those stupid women after meetings in the elevators anymore. We could take the stairs, and no one would have to ask why it took us so long to reach the lobby. Flirty girls could stop shooting him looks that I hate so much because he wouldn't encourage it. We could flirt instead of them._

_ I think I'd like that._

These were only the ghosts of thoughts that passed through Arthur's brain late in the night in an empty bed, the pillow next to him cooling. They still existed though, ones of a certain Frenchman with golden hair, the way he smiled, the way he talked. In the daylight, Arthur would have scowled and pushed those thoughts away before anyone noticed his red face or day-dreaming eyes. But here in the dark he was safe to let his mind go where-ever it wanted; down rose-bitten streets, at a cafe almost right next door to Arthur's favorite bookstore. Anywhere where Francis was, Arthur longed to be too, even it he was only watching from around a corner.

Admitting this was out of the question. The Englishman's pride could be measured against the ocean and still be seen as large. So he had to bide his time over with stolen smiles that were meant for whomever was behind him, glances that were met on accident. Frankly, this routine was killing Arthur and even he knew, in the back of his mind, that something had to be said, and soon too. Part of Arthur was dreading that day, because the whole of him was terrified about what Francis would say. Rejection was ever-looming and Arthur knew it would destroy him. He was known for putting all his eggs in one basket, so to speak, and had certainly done so with the alluring Frenchman. This brought him to the obvious fact he was falling in love. But no, there was no way he could let himself do that. He had to be in control of this issue. He couldn't afford to seem weak. It was too costly a mistake.

However, when compared to his disposition, the pride was an insignificant speck. His heart was as boundless as space and all is stars, and deeper than all the black holes stacked atop one another. So, for the most part, he was in control, but as far as Francis was concerned... Dear _God_ Francis. Francis he craved for, Francis he needed. The ache ran through every fiber in his being and so many times it threatened to overcome him in a flood of stupid actions he would surely regret.

The problem with Francis was that he was everywhere, even when he wasn't. After the meetings when Arthur was driving home, the cologne of the Frenchman wore stuck to his clothes and inside the songs on the radio was hidden that bird-like voice. It made it hard to forget about him, to fix the issue like he always had: Destroy them before they ever bloomed. But this Frenchman was a fucking _daisy_ and he had long since opened his petals to suck up all the sun Arthur possessed. It was a dangerously symbiotic relationship that had been formed, even without the knowledge of one party.

It was Francis that benefited though, compared to the way Arthur was suffering. For the good majority, his inside hurt because of his outside. Next to Francis, Arthur was a cold stone that was rough and hard. So in the natural order of things, technically Francis should end up with someone just as beautiful as himself, no one like Arthur. Yet another form of rejection the Englishman found himself dreading. He knew he wasn't very attractive, with his bushy eyebrows and deep scowl, but the worst thing would be having to hear that from Francis, who'd always insulted him out of jest. If there was truth in his teasings though, there would be a considerable lack of words on Arthur's part, simply because even after all their centuries of battle, there was still some unspoken softness upon which the Englishman thrived. It was a kind of security blanket for a self-conscious little boy.


	2. Chapter 2

Unbeknownst to him, in another part of the city, in another empty bed was someone very similar with equally familiar ideas floating around in his half-sober mind. Under the influence of three glasses of Spanish wine, Francis found his thoughts raging out of control in a manner and down paths that were dangerous. They were dangerous because they threatened the careful appearance he'd arranged for himself over the course of a very long time. He, like Arthur, had a far deeper underside, and Francis chose to cover that with fancy clothes, charming smiles, and expensive frivolities.

Now though, it was impossible to disguise the facade from himself but being drunk he could hardly care. Francis was amused that his brain was thinking not of the lovely ladies he'd met on the way home, but back to the man sitting next to him during the meeting. The Frenchman had been so distracted by Arthur; how he sat bent over his notes with shoulder's hunched, the way his brow furrowed when he thought. All of it was so _watchable_ and _loveable_ and that damn Englishman was ruing him in so many wonderful ways.

Unlike Arthur, Francis was fantastic at hiding the way he felt. It was a practiced second notion, but Francis was getting jaded. For one day he longed to walk around and not have to monitor every word that came out of his mouth, every action. Of all the things he would do though, the most important would be the proclamation he'd planned out the very first week he'd laid eyes on that Britannia angel. More than anything he wanted to swoop Arthur off his feet and take him home. But the Frenchman found toying with him was far more amusing, and it would make the satisfaction of capturing that first kiss much sweeter.

However, the toying had grown on them, and for a time, it was nicer and easier just to bicker. Francis could feel that time had passed and he wanted to mark his claim. But in that long time, things had happened. Life had happened, and the two became polar opposites with places to fill. Francis gained many friends (some with benefits, some without), and became "popular", if that was the word. Arthur remained as he was, stingy and uptight; and he he was hardly up to Francis's knee in terms of social standing. This is when the bantering became expected and it was impossible to branch out without causing panic among their peers. Consider it a social dike made of the need to uphold appearances and individual pride.

Like other, less figurative dams, it had begun to crack. It started small enough. Arthur was breaking up inside, Francis was trying to let his hair down more. It was a tedious process that had started many years ago, and despite the time, almost no outward progress had been made. But they knew. Somewhere they were both aware the other knew exactly what was happening. This similar mindset and consciousness was pushing against the dam, straining it and forcing it to the breaking point. Francis was bracing from one side, Arthur from the other, and that opposing push was bound to cave inwards. When that happened, Arthur would crash into Francis, and they'd be soaked in the things they'd tried to hide. It was not a question of "if", it was of "would". Would they be ready?

The answer was, of course not. They could never be ready. But that metaphorical dam _would_ come falling down, _would_ hit them hard, and it held the potential to kill them both. At least mentally, if nothing else. Arthur was aware of this, which closed the loop of worry and turned it into a fill circle of paranoia. Yet despite this, he still kept himself up with Francis, all night until weak morning hours when drowsiness took over. But even his dreams and subconscious were on that same track. Arthur Kirkland spent all night dreaming of Francis.

–

And they were so lovely, that in the morning when Arthur awoke, he had a difficult time separating the dreams from his current reality. He sat up in bed, body hot and twisted around in the sheets, blinking and rubbing his eyes. After he woke fully, he just sat there for a while. There was no motivation for his limbs to move just yet. But when he did find it, it was in the form of Saturday. Saturdays were spent at his favorite place of all time, and for a split instant the idea of Francis was forgotten. Until he realized who he normally saw there, even for a moment or so. Arthur remembered Francis passed by that quiet bookshop when he was about half-way out of bed. In the moment of distraction, his foot hooked on the sheet and he went flying face-first into the carpet.

"Bloody frog..." he muttered out loud, rubbing his bumped head and prying all the tangled covers from his body. A faint bruise was beginning to appear on one of his knees, he noticed, as he stood at the bathroom counter in his boxers. He looked down at himself, then back to up his tired face in the mirror. His eyes were dark and his hair was a complete mess he knew he would never get to stay down. Arthur popped his toothbrush into his mouth anyways. It's not like it mattered. Francis never looked his way so it would be pointless to dress up for someone who never noticed him.

After brushing his teeth, he proceeded to open his small closet and stare aimlessly into the mass of grays and greens and browns, trying to decide what to wear. Or rather what combination of colors would look best, because all his outfits were built the same way. After five minutes or so of jumping back and forth between two sets of slacks, he decided on the black ones, with a wrinkly navy button-up and gray hoodie zipped halfway. Even if it was a little ill-fitted, it would do fine for the casual purpose of the day's outing.

His boots were waiting in an unlaced heap by the door under his jacket and scarf, which he hadn't been expecting to need. But one look out the small kitchen window, and he deemed them necessary. Once outside, he was rather glad for it. The air was thick with fog, so much so it was impossible to tell where the ground stopped and the horizon broke into undefined and hazy sky. With the fog came a damp chill that shuddered though Arthur's thin body and wracked his teeth with chatters. He wrapped his arms around himself and locked the door to his flat behind him before heading off thought the streets.

They were quiet this time of day. Everything usually was. People were inside sleeping, out at work already, so it was just Arthur. With the fog, not even the trees rustled and the birds hardly let out a note. The world was encapsulated in a kind of stillness that the Englishman loved. This was his favorite time; where things stopped breathing and just watched everything else. For a moment he did as well, stopping at an intersection and watching his green light go red. As he waited, he peered and squinted his eyes into the thick atmosphere. Not a soul around. Just how he liked it. His light went green again, he walked across the road and down a hill towards a quainter section of asphalt. At some point in those seconds, he wondered if he could ever get the chance to share this time with Francis.

That thought sent him driving again. His breath picked up speed and his heart fluttered after a beat and make him hiccup. Urgency was suddenly present in his veins. He hadn't a clue why, but Arthur's legs seemed to move faster. The promise of disaster was tempting, and he walked right up to it when it called for him. It coaxed him past his usual corner shop, all the way down the hill to the river-side streets. It drove him to one in particular, wrapped in soft orange from the light of streetlamps refracting through the partials in the air. The illuminated street sign was completely unfamiliar to Arthur. He'd never been down this stretch before.

But he was unfazed by this and walked down the very small Dover Avenue, slower now than before. It was a crowded sort of place, the buildings on all sides seemed to tower over it and diminish everything on the street. The windows of the shops were dark, and of those there were few. Just a small fancy looking dress boutique, a dusty old antique store, the back door to a restaurant and an apartment building. The only thing lit was a cafe about half-way down the avenue, and it looked warm and friendly. There were many overflowing planters about it, vines with rose buds crawling up the red brick wall and spilling onto the wide front veranda which housed chairs and tables, all without inhabitants. Arthur wove his way about these, right up to the glass front doors. The old-ish looking sign above the door was too faded, and the light was too poor to read by, but it clearly wasn't English. He peered through that and a few of the other frosted windows, hand hovering above the latch.

"Arthur?" The Englishman about lost his sanity right there, whipping around and trying to strike the thing that startled him. Thankfully he was a poor hit and his depth perception was lacking accuracy, or he would have smacked a very surprised-looking Francis right across the face. As soon as he realized though, who was standing right behind him, Arthur seized up and instantly an annoyed look flavored his face. It was a natural reaction to seeing Francis. However this time, upon recalling last night's epiphanies, he toned it down and casually let his eyes wander up and down Francis.

"W-What are you doing here, Frog?" he asked, placing a hand on his hip. It was getting increasingly difficult to stay frustrated, because he was liking what he saw. He probably looked like crap compared to Francis, in his nice straight-leg jeans and pressed shirt under a leather jacket. Damn, he looked good in leather. And he had with him... What? "Why the bloody hell do you have an umbrella?" Francis smiled and brought it down by his side to close up, squinting up into the fog as if he was expecting to see something.

"It is supposed to rain today." Arthur's face ripped red. He did remember hearing that on the radio last night and completely ignored it. He'd be drying laundry when he got home.

"That still doesn't answer my first question," he snapped back. "What are you doing here?"

"I zought I would 'ave my morning coffee 'ere. I 'ave never 'ad anyzing from zis place before. In fact I did not notice it until zis morning and I walk by zis road most every day."

"O-Oh..." Arthur immediately shied away, casting his glance at the stone upon which they stood. He couldn't help but feel strangely about the fact they both chanced upon the same place on Dover on the same day.

"Would you like to join me?" Francis asked, and Arthur's head snapped up, eyes wide and cheeks red up to the ears.

"Would I like to what?" The Frenchman smiled and grabbed for the door handle, failing to notice Arthur's hand was already there. The shock of such an innocent touch was monumental. Arthur actually made an audible noise from somewhere in his throat and flushed hot, and Francis almost ripped his hand back in surprise. Instead he closed his fingers around Arthur's, which where already wrapped around the handle and popped the door open.

"Come on," he removed his hand and motioned with his arm, "my treat. It 'as been a while since we sat down togezer."

"A-And for good reason..." Arthur muttered, but his voice was weak and did not hold his usual insulting flare. But the look from those baby blue eyes was so enticing, he let out a sigh and allowed Francis to lead him in. He removed his hand from its perch on brass and walked inside, staying close to the golden-haired male a step ahead of him. The walls were a warm orange color, and comfy looking furniture in browns and reds and golds surrounded tables and a fireplace against the far wall crackled loudly. The air was warm and alive, despite there being only two other people there. One stood behind the counter, a woman with long brown hair and bright green eyes, washing a cup in the sink; the other a very distinguished looking man reading over a folder that looked to contain sheet music in treble clef.

"Over zere," and the Englishman felt a hand reach slyly back and grab his wrist. He mumbled something about not liking to sit in the corner, but he permitted Francis to take him to the far side of the room, where sat a large chocolate-colored couch and a low coffee table. Franc released Arthur's wrist and plopped onto one side, propping his feet up to leave Arthur standing awkwardly. He twisted his hands together and stared. It was a couch, more specifically a _love-seat_, which was meant for two and that put him too comfortably close to Francis so that it was uncomfortable.

"I, uh-" he started to make up an excuse to go, but the other stopped him.

"You're not going to bail, are you? Come sit, I want to talk to you!" It was said in such a way, in such a cheerful and sincere way that Arthur walked around the small table and sat himself as far away from Francis as he could manage. He was practically stuffed into the corner of the sofa. The Frenchman had started taking off his jacket, then noticed Arthur when one arm was halfway through the sleeve. He paused. "Relax, Angleterre." But even after saying that and resuming his task, he noticed that the male next to him refused to do so. It came as a relief to the Englishman, as Francis could clearly see, when the waitress came over. Arthur found it leaps and bounds easier to relax when it wasn't just him and Francis.


	3. Chapter 3

"Good morning," she greeted them, a wide smile on her face. "What can I get for you?" Francis shot her back an equally flashing grin, and it make Arthur's intestines squirm because of two reasons. One, he loved that smile. Two, that smile, as much as he loved it, wasn't directed at him.

"Bonjour belle," and she giggled and blushed. Francis looked pleased with himself. "Might I be so humble to ask of you a cup of your finest black coffee?" The woman laughed again, and nodded before turning to Arthur. When she saw him, there was a noticeable down-shift in her demeanor.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, and Arthur could feel the cheery aura become strained. He scowled, yet another automatic response, and made some sort of a grumbling noise.

"Just tea. No sugar."

"Alright. Thanks." The last statement was clearly directed at Francis, and as she walked away and kept looking behind her shoulder, the Frenchman winked and made kissy lips at her. It caused Arthur to snort and roll his eyes, but there was a sudden and immense pain inside his chest, and it _hurt_.

"Really souping it up today, aren't we?" he spat. The bitterness didn't replace the other ugly feeling. Francis waved a hand dismissively at him.

"Oui, and your people skills are even more horrendous zan ze last time we went out." Alright, that was a little colder than Arthur expected. He waited a while, to let the tension spasm die a little, before speaking again. This time he made sure to put indifference in his voice.

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Because it 'as been so long since we 'ave spoken outside a meeting. I miss zat. Surely you miss it too?" Francis asked, crossing his legs and proping an inviting arm over the back of the couch. Arthur wanted to slide up to him and have that arm fall around his shoulders. It might be the perfect fit. But he didn't. There were still airs to keep up, even in an almost-private place like this.

"Pff, like I would miss spending time with a damn frog. I have other people to see besides you." Francis looked over at Arthur, now interested. He actually knew that Arthur was bluffing, he could tell by the shifty manner those green eyes moved around, but he ought to have some fun with it.

"Ooh? Ozer people? Women, perhaps?" Francis teased. Arthur's breath snagged in his throat and he coughed nervously.

"L-Like I would tell you," he replied, twisting his hands together and staring down into his lap. No women, not even men or even friends. His list of people that would willingly go places with him was dangerously small.

"Well," Francis said promptly, steering the conversation away from Arthur's weak spot, "I 'ave certainly missed talking with you like zis." As he tipped his head back to stare a moment at the decorated ceiling, Arthur could look over at blink at him for a few moments.

"You have?" he asked, honestly startled. Francis looked over, grinning, before closing his eyes.

"Of course I 'ave." It was as if that was the most natural thing to slip out of his mouth. Arthur was completely surprised. That had to have been a lie. He knew he wasn't much fun, that he always went around like there was an uncomfortably large object up his ass, and he also knew those were qualities that no one, even the most polite of people, missed. Yet here Francis was, saying he missed him, and sounding like he meant it.

And something about that felt good. It felt fantastic. A swelling, sweeping thing inside him like an ocean, that water made of pride, getting stirred up by something completely contradictory that made the sea-level drop. There was a very stupid looking smile plastered to his mouth, and Francis could see it, but Arthur didn't care because it felt great. His basking in this something lovely, though, was broken by the clinking of two cups near by, and again the long-haired girl came onto the scene with their drinks this time.

The woman handed over Arthur's first, and then Francis's. When he passed him the rather large mug, she made sure to brush her fingertips along the back of his fingers. Arthur watched for the reaction, for another one of his winking smiled and a charming remark in French that would earn him her number. But it never came. Even when she left, Francis didn't wink, and it was obvious she had wanted him to. Instead Francis sipped his coffee and said nothing, looking as if he was deep in thought. Which was something new for Arthur to see, because all his life he had hardly ever seen the Frenchman think on something that hard.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, curious. Francis paused again, resting the cup in his palm before taking a deep breath.

"I zink I am in love with you."

Arthur wished he had never asked.

He spat out his tea back into the cup and stared. His entire face was red, even down his neck. He what? No, he didn't say it. But the look on Francis's face was different, and he could still see the phrase hanging from his mouth.

"W-What? Well, what on this bloody earth d-do you expect me to say to that?" He could hardly stutter out a response, and even then the words were a surprise to even him. What was he saying? Why didn't he just tell the truth? Because he was still scared. He could see his hands shaking in his lap and could feel his insides banging around and causing a wreck in his body. He couldn't even bring himself to look Francis in the eye.

"Maybe you love me too?"

Francis was having a mental fit of his own, but at least he was able to keep it in the confines of his head instead of showing it like Arthur was. He knew, of course, that the Englishman was only faking it. He could understand body language well enough to know that. Yet still he panicked, because despite drilling this over and over in his head for when the time did come, the only thing he hadn't planned for was rejection.

"I don't know," Arthur replied curtly, picking up his cup and drinking again. Francis did the same with his coffee, peering over to look at the man next to him, to observe how conflicted he still was.

"Even if you do not say it I know you do." Arthur slammed his cup down onto the coffee table, cherry color renewed on his face. It was a frustrated blush this time.

"You do not! You hardly know a thing about me!"

"Zat is no where close to ze truth. I 'ave been watching you and learning about you since we were kids, Arthur, and I want to know more. I want to know every part of your body, every corner inside ze English mind of yours. And from what I do know about you, I know zat you want to know about me too, just as badly."

Dear Lord, Arthur was about to deactivate and collapse right there. There was no way, _no way_, that his ears were working right. But even after Francis's lips had closed, the words were still there, imprinted so strongly on the air. More than anything Arthur wanted to rip them down and tear them up so he wouldn't have to deal with them. He did so verbally.

"I don't know, F-Francis," he repeated. The name was the hardest part to choke out. It seemed to fit right into his mouth, perfectly, so that it stuck and almost didn't come out. After that, they sat in silence. It wasn't an awkward or uncomfortable silence like the one that had been expected though. It was a curious sort of one, the kind where you could hear the thoughts and cogs clank and squeak about in the heads of others. And inside Arthur's head, Francis could practically hear things exploding and shutting down and going into emergency over-drive all at one time. It was a rather lovely something to hear, and it was nice to see it in his eyes, but Francis wanted to hear something, anything more than "I don't know". He had at least expected a slap or something from Arthur. Not...nothing. It was leading him to doubt himself. The confidence Francis once had in this endeavor was wiped out by the lack of response.

"H-Hey Francis..." Arthur started, out of the blue. His thoughts had organized themselves in a neat enough arrangement so his mouth could work again.

"Arthur?"

"I think I love you, too." Francis felt a small smile creep onto his face, and he looked over to see Arthur's face burned in his hands, ears red and he was fidgeting uncontrollably. He set down his mug as quietly as he could, freeing his hands so he could touch Arthur's. He ran his fingertips along the backs of his hands, finding every small scrape and smudge of dirt before Arthur was able to set his embarrassment aside for a moment and look up. As soon as his hands were free, the Frenchman grabbed a hold of them and brought them to his mouth to press multiple kisses to his knuckles and fingers. Arthur watched him, feeling confused instead of embarrassed, although that was there too.

"What are you doing?" he asked, peering down at Francis. He felt himself get a little shaky when the Frenchman looked back up at him and smiled.

"What does it look like I am doing?" He released Arthur's hands and moved his own to the zipper of the gray barrier. He slowly started unzipping it, and Arthur's face quickly drained of it's color.

"I-In a coffee shop? It's not exactly private, Francis." His green eyes moved quickly about the room, watching. No one took any notice to them, but he was still unreasonably paranoid with the idea of touching the man he was supposed to hate while in a public place. Francis, of course, took this as a joke. He grinned maliciously.

"Ooh, so you wanted to do things in _private_ with me?" Again, Arthur's cheeks turned red, and he shook his head violently.

"That isn't what I m-meant!" He would have protested more, but he felt lips at the corner of his mouth, kissing carefully before Francis felt his teasing was enough and he stopped the movement of his hands.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" he asked. Arthur response was almost automatic.

"Yes." It was a hurried kind of getting up, but there was a certain aspect about it that turned their stomachs. As often as possible, they made sure to brush hands, give the other a meaningful look, and it made them both laugh at the insanity of what was happening. It wasn't supposed to be this way. Arthur was supposed to have stormed out in annoyance a long time ago, leaving Francis with a smirk, his coffee, and an aching heart. But it was this way; that very tender, loving way. As they walked across the carpet, Arthur still trailed behind Francis; it was simply what he was used to. But a hand reached behind and latched onto his wrist so the Frenchman could pull Arthur astride him. It felt better that way.

They both waved to the waitress as they passed her, she cleaning the table where the man with the beauty mark and sheet music had sat. Francis smiled, taking notice to see that the receipt was tucked in her front pocket, with the scrawlings of a phone number left there. Their visit had inadvertently caused a kind of double-date, or so was the general idea. But the thought of the man and woman who would doubtlessly be getting together again that night was only a fleeting one before Arthur put himself back on the scene. They'd reached the door by now, and the Englishman's arm was already outstretched to open the door.

Francis beat him to it. His arm snapped out over Arthur's and grabbed onto the handle to pop the door open. He could have sworn Arthur looked shocked, but he didn't voice it, instead stepping outside and letting Francis follow him. The fog had cleared, but with it came thick raindrops and a cold breeze that turned Arthur's nose pink as soon as he stepped outside. The pair looked up, and instantly the Englishman berated himself for being so forgetful.

"You were right," Arthur said, tucking his arms around his stomach and shivering. Francs grinned and popped open the umbrella to hold over both their heads.

"You are lucky, zen." In unison, they both stepped from under the awning and into the rain. It pattered noisily against the umbrella, in an almost deafening kind of way. They left the area of the shop, tuning left and making their way down Dover Avenue. The rest of the places were lit by that point, with people moving in the windows. Normally Arthur would have walked quickly by with his head down, and Francis would have window-shopped for women, but they did neither of those things. It was just Francis and Arthur, walking close together, the white frostiness of their breath mixing together in the air. They reached the main street, and Francis directed them down the street, deeper and deeper into the city.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked, despite loving the kind of silence their two bodies had created.

"Do you 'ave somewhere to be today?" Francis asked him.

"No." The Frenchman smiled.

"Me neither."

They began to wind their way through the many winding streets and roads, meeting very few people, seeing very little other than the usual city buildings. They hardly spoke either, and this was the surprising thing. They didn't talk. Arthur had always speculated that if they ever got together (though it had really been a matter of "when") there would be words. Lots of them. He would argue or be in denial, and Francis would have to coax him out of that stage, and then his mind took him to where Francis's had started. In a bedroom. So ideally the atmosphere was perfect for the Frenchmen, just the wrong setting. It wasn't what they were expecting, but it wasn't disappointing. It was anything but; instead a happy medium they had reached and were pleased with.

Somewhere along their trek, Francis found his hand moving over to Arthur's, trying to grab at his fingers, but every time Arthur would move, intentionally or not he wasn't sure, but it was several minutes before he was finally able to touch his hand and hold it tightly in his own. Arthur's hands were calloused in a soft way and Francis was surprised they fit hit own, as he had always thought them to be small. The Frenchman gave a slight yank as they turned around a corner, and Arthur fell more closely in-step with him. Yet his fingers remained slack and didn't touch the back of Francis's hand, which he had rather hoped for. It felt a rather one sided gesture for the time being. But what could he say, that wouldn't mess things up? So he kept quiet and walked.

It took them a few more minutes to get accustomed to what they were doing. One would always look sideways with such a face that seemed to ask "What the hell am I doing, holding hands with _this_ guy?" This definitely wasn't easy. Granted the mere fact they were actually "together" in that sense that caused happy shocks to be sent down their body every moment the thought of the other or anything associated to him crossed their minds, but there was still something strange about it.

Of course, the ones protesting to this change would be their amourpropre (or so was the French word), that had been such a big part of them. Their clashing egos were stuffed away though, for the time being. They would work out the kinks later, and the talking would come later too. In fact that entire afternoon would be spent talking, about everything. But for the moment, it was just quiet, where it was their minds doing the talking, the exploring. A metaphorical testing the waters, just in case there was a second thought or a decision it was just a false alarm, and they could go back to hating each other for a few more years.

They found none.


	4. Chapter 4

One Year Later

–

"Francis!"

Francis had been used to hearing that shrill yell in his flat for the past five months. Ever since Arthur moved in, whenever he couldn't find anything (still having a hard time getting used to the layout of their space) or needed something, he was always yelling. There was really no reason for it. Maybe it made him feel better. The Frenchman had no idea, but at the time present he was being summoned, so he picked himself up from the couch and made his way down the small hall to the bathroom door, knocking.

"Oui, mon cher?" Arthur poked his head out of the bathroom door, making a point to stand behind it so that only his head was showing. His hair was dripping, and that amplified the irritated look. Until Francis came into view, and he was instantly humbled back into a boy who had tried and failed to speak out against a teacher.

"W-Where did you put the towels?" he asked, face blushing red.

"Out in ze hall closet," Francis replied, as if that was the most natural explanation. Arthur raised an eyebrow, and the annoyance grew in his eyes.

"The hall closet? Why not in the bathroom, where towels belong?" The Frenchman shrugged.

"Because zey didn't fit in ze sink cabinets. Why?" Arthur fidgeted from behind the door, looking down at the tiles.

"I...I can't find one on the rack in here..." His voice was no more than a mumble, and the blunt nervousness point to the fact he wasn't wearing anything. And Francis enjoyed that.

"You must not 'ave been looking 'ard enough," he said, putting his hand on the door and giving it a push. Arthur held it in place.

"I looked just fine, thank you! Now will you just go get me one?" He seemed to be growing increasingly uncomfortable, and Francis had a vague notion why. Another sly smiled painted itself across his lips, and he quickly slid into the door-frame, putting him at a better vantage point to get a full-frontal look before the Englishman retreated back behind the door yet again. "I told you already, they're not in here, you damn frog!"

"But you are," Francis replied, raking his eyes down what was visible of the other; his torso, a hip, a leg. Arthur was just so...so _cute_. His thin body was still dripping from the shower, skin prickled with goosebumps from the chilling hallway air. The blonde hair atop his head was slicked across his forehead and hardly covered the eyes wide with frustration. Francis wasn't fully aware that his mouth was half open, his heart rate had soared, and there was a straining feeling in his pants. But Arthur noticed.

"Stop staring at me!" His face shot red and quickly his tried to cover himself with his hands. Francis's eyes found their way to Arthur's, and the Englishman seemed to lock up and did not protest when the other slipped inside and closed the door.

"If I cannot stare, can I do ozer zings?" the Frenchman asked, making sure to shift the tone of his voice to a thicker accent, something he knew Arthur would never be able to say no to. The answer was not an outright "Yes" (there were very few times Francis actually got that), but it was in the relaxing of shoulders and a wispy sort of noise escaping from Arthur's mouth. The long-haired male took a grateful step up and right into Arthur's chest.

He felt water seep into his shirt from the contact. It provided a perfectly good lubricant for Francis's intrepid hands, letting them slither up and down the length of Arthur's sides, then his front. It created the most lovely noises from the Englishman's throat, the best faces. His own hands were still wet, and the coolness sent sparks through the Frenchman's chest as Arthur slipped his hands under the intrusive fabric to mimic what the other was doing. The friction created a kind of rocking motion between the two, that got a few more things up than just their heart rates.

Arthur's lips were still dripping and slick, and they slid open almost instantly, welcoming Francis in with an open mouth and an eager tongue. For a moment they were in a gridlock, one pushing against the other, creating a monstrous uproar of noises that were even more a turn-on than just touching alone, of which there was plenty. Francis took hold of Arthur's bare hips, pushing and rolling his thumbs into them, working his hands steadily downwards. Arthur's were grabbing frantically at Francis's hair, touching his jaw, then unbuttoning his shirt. Their gasps for air were breif, desperate noises, but they were always drown out by the wet noise of another kiss.

Francis took a step forward, causing Arthur to move back and reach out with a hand to try and find the wall to lean against. But the tile was slippery, and Francis had a hard time keeping his footing in guiding the Englishman, so he slipped and brought both their bodies to the ground. Francis landed with a hard thump upon Arthur's chest, the latter of whom had gotten the short end of the deal and landed on the floor.

"W-What the hell Francis?" Arthur asked angrily, rubbing his head.

"Désolé, mon amour," was the frantic reply, and to compensate for the injury Francis give the other another kiss, a little deeper. Arthur grabbed onto the edge of the tub, pulling himself up and wrapping both legs around Francis. His hand was slick though, and he had to move it for fear of losing his grip and banging his head yet again. Each time his mouth was penetrated, he felt the shocks reside all through his body, and he kept pushing himself at Francis.

"Needy today, are we?" the Frenchman whispered into Arthur's as they took a breather with a set of hands still fumbling to undo the belt around the wait of the taller.

"S-Shut it, Frog." But even as he spoke his hands kept working, and very shortly after, his mouth again. Back pressed against the cool ceramic, Arthur was swung from fits of heat to chills; the heat from Francis all pressed up against the entirety of him, and the chills from the air that had yet to warm up again. Arthur tried to speed that up,finally unlatching the belt and slipping it out of the loops on Francis's jeans. He tossed it backwards, it landing with a metallic clunk in the tub. His hands became a sloppy, fumbling mess as he unsnapped and unzippered the boundary between him and his own seventh heaven. But the Frenchman paused in the kiss, then changed, pulling his tongue out and used only his lips. Arthur was clearly not pleased with this drawback, trying to rush past the barrier made of teeth and lips but the other would not let him. Francis stroked Arthur's hair, kissed his forehead, and then pulled away to glance into those pleading eyes.

"Slow down, mon cher," he cooed, slowing his motions and cupping Arthur's face in his hands

"What? W-Why?" he panted in response, still subconsciously pressing himself up into Francis.

"I want to look at you." Arthur stared at him blankly. The statement seemed rather random and put him off-guard.

"Look at me?"

"Oui," Francis said, and smiled. "You're beautiful."

–

"Great, now I get to take another shower..." Arthur grumbled once he got his voice back. They were both lying on the bathroom floor, Francis wrapped around Arthur's body. Upon hearing this he grinned, lifting his head as to rest his chin on Arthur's clavicle.

"May I join?" he asked softly.

Arthur smirked and pushed back the shower curtain with his foot, taking a hold of Francis's hand before climbing in.

–

"Do you want to go back to Dover?"

It was asked later that night, as they lay under cool soft sheets, limbs tangled together after their long goodnight kiss. Arthur was still a little delusional, rolling over and hiding his face into the pillow before mumbling out his confusion.

"Dover?" Francis rolled over too, hugging his arms around the male beside him.

"Yes, Dover Avenue." The Frenchman kissed Arthur's bare shoulder. "Surely you remember it?" In the half darkness, Arthur smirked. He reached an arm back and tangled it in the softness of Francis's hair.

"Ah, the place with the good coffee," he teased. One of the arms around him withdrew for a moment to smack his arm sharply, but without the intention to hurt him.

"Arthur!" Francis scolded, voice holding a certain edge that caused Arthur to laugh it off and pat him on the head.

"Calm down, Frog," he said, turning half-way over so he could make out Francis's form in the dim lighting. "Of course I remember."

"Do you want to go?" He paused, and a small smile crossed his mouth. He closed his eyes.

"Yes, Francis. Take me back to Dover."

–

The end.

–


End file.
